The Invisible Chains - Part 3: Bonds of Blood (24 page)

People went by without looking at him, and after a few minutes he knew that was how it would be for the rest of the evening.

He would have liked to drain his cup in one go and leave the place, but he forced himself to drink his wine slowly, in small, deliberate sips, neither looking down, nor looking around. A world unto himself. That was, he felt, what he had become.

It seemed to take an interminably long time, but finally he had finished his drink, and he left. Nobody greeted him. Neither did he greet anyone.

When he mo heighhennd unted the stairs to his room, he could hear raucous laughter coming from the Mukthar's communal room. Some people, at least, were having a good time.

A few days later, again going up to his room, he had met the red-haired Mukthar coming down the stairs.

“You always go to bed this early, Ximerionian? Little boys need their sleep, eh?”

“It's not by choice, Mukthar. I just have nothing better to do. I don't know if you noticed, or even care, but I'm being somewhat shunned by my peers. So...”

“So, why not come down with me. We're going to play games.”

“Yeah, right. I've had my fill for a while of Mukthar games.”

Rodomesh grinned.

“I bet you do. But these are innocent games you play with your clothes on. And with dice. And cards. The occasional dagger.”

Lorcko actually felt a bit touched. A human being — well, almost a human being — who deigned invite him.

As he had said himself, it was not as if he had anything better to do.

The Mukthars looked suspiciously at him at first, but when they saw Rodomesh making a sign for Lorcko to sit next to him, they relented. Shermy sniffed at him.

“Dandelions?” he asked.

“Huh... what? No. No, lilacs. It's my hair,” he answered, taken aback a bit.

Shermy took a strand of his hair and held it under his nose.

“Nice. Could be a little bit more pungent though.”

“Ah, yes. I suppose. I like to go for subtlety.”

“Nice trinket too,” Shermy said, pointing at a silver brooch he was wearing on his tunic.

“Ah. that's the escutcheon of our House. You see, a fist, more like a claw, holding three arrows.”

The Mukthars preferred their wine pure. So did Lorcko, but in contrast to them he could hold his. Also, he was one of those lucky people who instinctively knew when to stop. And then actually stopped. He drank himself into in a mild flush, until even a room filled with Mukthars began to look cozy and the harsh laughter didn't bother him that much anymore.

The games were rather simple. The dice looked as if they had belonged to something that, not long ago, had walked around in some forest. They didn't play for money, but he took care to lose once in a while nevertheless.

By eleven most of the Mukthars hung in the chairs, half unconscious.

“You must come eat with us tomorrow,” Rodomesh said.

“Yeah, we're having chicken. Real chicken with everything still in them. We had to teach the cook how. He knows nothing. Nothing,” Shermy added.

“At first he didn't want to, but we convinced him.”

They both burst out in a loud bellow laugh.

“I can imagine,” Lorcko said, smiling weakly.

“No, you can't,” Shermy said, “but maybe one day we'll tell you.”

This time they almost suffocated laughing.

The Mukthar prince didn't exactly ignore him, but neither did he seek him out. He smilignore. Hpt"ed and nodded whenever they passed each other in the hallways, but that was the extent of the contact they had.

Timishi had arched his brows, then smiled, but had said nothing when he appeared at their dinner table next evening.

The meal had been a pleasant experience. He had remembered from the banquet that the Mukthars didn't use a fork and had reminded himself to pay attention not to use one either. Which proved easy. There were no forks. The chicken turned out to be charred on the outside, warmish-raw on the inside, with most of the organs still intact. He didn't care for the lungs, but the liver was tasty, he had to admit. Lucky for him, he had strong, healthy teeth. The Mukthars seemed to appreciate how he put them, seemingly with much gusto, into the breast of a burned bird.

Shermy had spit out a bone that landed on his platter. It was obviously an accident as the little Mukthar had meant it to land on the floor, so he took no offense.

During the meal he studied their faces, especially Rodomesh's and Timishi's. Later, in his room he started to practice before the mirror. It looked ridiculous at first, but after a while he could tilt his head and grin at the same time. Coordinating a shrug with those gestures proved more difficult, but eventually he managed it. He tried out several kinds of grin. After three evenings he felt he had four varieties pat and two others coming along nicely.

He studied their clothing. They used it not only to cover themselves, but also for wiping their greasy mitts after a meal, and the fur lining proved handy for wiping their noses. He shuddered to think what else they would be wiping with them, when they were not wearing them.

Well, no need to go as far as all that, but a Mukthar touch here and there would look fabulous, he reckoned.

So he collected a mantle, a tunic and a shirt, put on his most ingratiating smile and sought out Varsia the seamstress.

To the outside world the Mukthars looked a close knit group, but of course they had their little internal rivalries and occasional clashes.

He soon noticed that cute, little Shermy was barely on speaking terms with a big, burly fellow, called Lushorm. Whenever they did speak, it was mostly in acerbic snarls.

“It's because I'm small,” Shermy sighed. “So he thinks he can insult me whenever it pleases him.”

“You're not small,” Lorcko shushed. “You're, eh... compact. Compact. That's the word. Besides, size is not everything.”

Shermy looked at him with big eyes as this sounded a strange concept to Mukthar ears.

“No, really, it isn't. Look at oxes for example,” Lorcko smiled. “They're much bigger than we are, yet we make them work for us and finally we eat them. Haven't you noticed? Never the other way around.”

“That's so true,” Shermy cried out.

“Quiet, little runt,” Lushorm said from behind his back, without knowing what they had been talking about.

Shermy turned around.

“Shut up, Lushorm, before I eat you.”

He turned back to Lorcko and grinned gratefully.

After ten days or so, he felt he was acclimatized enough to ask a delicate question. One evening, when Shermy was in just the right mood, but hadn't as yet drunk himself unconscious, he popped it.

“So, Shermy, how would I go about acquiring a Mukthar dagger?” he asked innocently, toying with his brooch.

Shermy looked strangely at him.

“Why would you want a Mukthar dagger, Lorsho?”

“I think they're vastly superior to ours,” he shrugged.

“That they are, no doubt about it,” Shermy answered.

“And they have those little nifty teeth,” Lorcko added.

“Little, nifty,
dangerous
teeth.”

“Yep. Don't you have
three
daggers, Shermy?”

“Eh, yes. Yes, I do,” Shermy said, unable to take his eyes from Lorcko's brooch. “But, we Mukthars don't like to part with them.”

“
Oh, come on, I know you like shiny things, little Mukthar,”
Lorcko thought.

“I could be persuaded to part with this age-old family heirloom, although we Ximerionian nobles don't like to either,” Lorcko drawled.

Iramid senior had ordered the age-old heirloom made three years ago for his birthday.

“I don't mind if it's a bit rusty,” Lorcko tried to sweeten the deal. “It doesn't have to be your best dagger.”

“Mukthar daggers aren't rusty. Ever,” Shermy said indignantly.

“Of course not. How silly of me,” Lorcko hastily agreed.

Deep grooves on Shermy's forehead indicated that a fierce battle was going on in his head between greed, unwillingness to part with one of his daggers... and lust.

“
He seems to want a dagger very, very much. I could ask for the trinket and make him show me his shlong.

Maybe make him let me suck it. Feel him up a bit. Have him feel me up....”

He took a long drought of his cup to hide his embarrassment.

“
No, Shermy, you can't do that. It's not honorable. And why must I always be honorable? Because Timishi
took you into his Council. That's why. And maybe he will want a second round of the mravinshinohr with
Lorsho and he won't like that you planted your little flag, well not all that little, compact more like it,
where... anyway... Poor Lorsho... Focus, Shermy.”

Lorcko watched intently how a plethora of emotions appeared and disappeared again on the diminutive Mukthar's face.

“
Fuck Shardosh in his stinking hole. I can't refuse him. It's as if I wouldn't give him a dagger because he
won't show me his shlong, and that's not fair. Is it? No, it isn't. It would be childish. Un-Mukthar-like. Mean.

And I'm not mean. I'll kill anyone who says I'm mean. Yes, I will. I shouldn't have drunk so much. No, I
shouldn't have.”

“Is there anything I can do to help you, ah, decide?” Lorcko tried, totally unaware of Shermy's ruminations.

“
Damn him. Damn him. He had to say that. Now I have to give him my best dagger. He's being nice, damn
him. He will think I want to touch his shlong if I don't give him my best dagger. It's the only honorable thing
to do.”

“No, no,” he said, “there's nothing I could possibly want from you.”

Lorcko looked disappointed.

“
All right. All right. Stop looking at me. Nobody here wants to see your shlong, let alone touch it or suck it.

Or touch that soft flesh of yours, or see you naked and lying down all ready to be... or have you put your
arms around... Or have those long fingers rub my shinnizzles, until they stand upright, especially the right
one with the ring... Stop it, Shermy, stop it.”

“You know what,” he said, “you can have the middle one.”

“The middle one?”

“My second best dagger.”

Lorcko almost jumped for joy. He started to take off his silver brooch.

“No, leave it be. You can keep your trinket, seeing as it is a family heirloom and all that. After all, it's only a dagger, and not even my best one,” he said, tears almost springing to his eyes at the thought of having to part with one of his knives.

“No, no, Shermy, I insist. It's such... such an honor. You would be doing me a favor. I would be so proud to see you wear the arms of the House of Iramid. A mighty warrior like you.”

Which was how Lorcko ended up with Shermy's best dagger.

Wearing his Mukthar dagger prominently in view, made him feel a whole lot better. A whole lot.

“
Ha. They want to see my dick? Let them first take a look at this old thing, hanging just beside it.”

Of course, sour puss that he was, Ramaldah had to try to ruin his buoyant mood.

“Hey, hey, ho, Iramid,” he heard him yelling from the other side of the inner court. “What do you think you're wearing?”

He came running to Lorcko, followed, at a more leisurely pace, by Landemere.

“What, Ramaldah?”

“That, Iramid. As if you didn't know what I meant. That is, to my best knowledge, not, most definitely not a regulation issue page's dagger.”

“No,” Lorcko said coolly, “that's a Mukthar dagger. A real one.”

“Aha. Well—”

“Nothing aha, Ramaldah,” Lorcko, tired of being or ignored or pestered, bit at him. “First look at your barrack mates. What's he wearing?”

He pointed at Arranulf's bracelet.

“Is that a regulation issue bracelet, Ramaldah?” Lorcko scoffed. “Seems a dangerous thing to me. Sword points could easily get stuck behind it. Enemy sword points.”

“It's a gift from grandmother,” Arranulf said sheepishly.

“Ah, well, yes, that's true I suppose, but—” Obyann protested.

“Nothing but, Ramaldah. And that little guy with all the curls? Doesn't he live in your barrack as well? I regularly see him wearing a rose in the lapel of his mantle. Are you really sure that's a standard issue army rose, Ramaldah?”

“You have a point there, I guess. Damn the little weirdo. To be fair he only does that when he's wearing clothes. Which is less often than you would think... Don't laugh, Landemere, this is partly your fault. Your's and your bracelet's.”

“It seems, I'm the only one who is seriously preparing for war,” Lorcko said icily.

“Yes, yes, that's certainlh="1em cey py a way one could look at things.”

“Well, I have to go,” Lorcko said curtly. He nodded. “Ramaldah, Landemere.”

Before he went, he gave them a broad grin. His Sneering-Rodomesh-grin.

He couldn't avoid contact with his peers at all times, and neither did he want to. He had to go to practice sessions with the other pages of his group. Usually some light snacks were served afterwards. Then they were free to go.

Lorcko tried to ignore Ambrick and his friends as good as he could, though he couldn't suppress a painful pang upon seeing him. He had loved that guy, by the Gods. But he muddled through. He heard them snicker behind his back. He feigned not to hear a thing, though it made him edgy. What were they snickering about?

He had trounced them soundly, hadn't he? Then again, by all reckoning they had eradicated that little incident out of history. Even so, let them smirk all they want and see if he cared.

But he did care. Of course he did.

Eynurm of Tarnwood saw the going ons behind Lorcko's back and felt like throwing up. He didn't particularly like Iramid. He had heard all the stories about how he had used his looks to seduce guys, and then had dropped them, most of the time in a puddle of their own tears. Besides, in the matter of sexual mores, Eynurm stood firmly on Obyann's side of the barricade. If it hadn't boobs, it didn't stir his blood in the least. Not to mention that Iramid was a bit of a weak fop. He didn't mind guys being ruggedly handsome, as he liked to think he himself was, but Iramid... well, Iramid was cute in a most confusing way. His long, scented hair, his manicured nails... The guy, if you could call him that, belonged behind a harp or a lute, not behind a sword.